Does My Poetry Make Any Sense Either?

Kindness incarnate like a pilgrim's crow I write a  few words sitting in a silent corner,
Where billions of people go to bed every night with hunger,
Does my poetry make any sense either?

An inert like a Husking Pedal incarnate  I am present here passive,
Where people sleep on the street,
Even now I have rushed out not to join the fight
that who are fighting for the people's right.
I thereby shall not wite
Today I shall not write
No matter how much joy do thou fill me with,
My words warrant not a stanza in a poetry until everywhere there is a light.